Arrival of the Birds
by olivve
Summary: Starting with a one night stand comes a twisting, intense, and psychologically-driven tale. Falling in love, but not the usual way: it's complicated. Dean/OC
1. PROLOGUE

**PROLOGUE**

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Emma hadn't planned on meeting him. She had other plans that day, other things she wanted to do. She had absolutely no intentions of meeting him, striking up a conversation and eventually tumbling into bed. She just didn't _do_ things like that.

Heck, she had only ever been with one other guy before him. It was such a new experience for her. She had felt nervous, but for whatever reason, she just couldn't let the stranger walk away from her. Something about him was incredibly intriguing—she didn't know if it was his confident manner, the sound of his voice, or if perhaps it was the way he held himself. Something about him just made her feel drawn to him, like he was some kind of magnet. It was the strangest sensation she had ever felt.

It was also very strange because she hadn't been with a guy in a long while, so she felt a little out of practice. Emma had always been shy growing up, and it was something she had never really grown out of. She sometimes wondered why she was the way she was—so demure, quiet, and introverted when, growing up, she had a very outgoing and loving upbringing.

Clara, her mother, worked at a small bakery in town and always brought home cookies for her and her older brother, Carter to snack on while the two of them did their homework in the kitchen. Her father, William, was a short, happy man with an infectious smile and laugh. He was a counselor at the local high school and was well-loved and respected by everyone who knew him.

Emma and her older brother got along well, being only five years apart in age. He would always allow Emma to hang out with him and his friends whenever they came over—although Emma suspected it was mostly because their mother would always make him. Regardless, she enjoyed their time together. Even now, she could still remember sitting on the front porch steps of their townhouse and listening with interest while Carter and his friends sat on the steps in front of her, playing with the wheels on their skateboards as they joked or talked about school.

Other times when they were alone, her and Carter would sit on the floor in the in the living room while the afternoon sunlight poured in from the window and warmed their backs. She would watch him shoot Storm Troopers and save the galaxy on his PlayStation, cheering him on by offering him small smiles of encouragement whenever he looked over at her.

The house was eerily silent as Emma pulled herself from bed, and she tried to ignore the way the hairs on her arms stood on end when she shed her clothes in the bathroom and turned on the shower. As she waited for it to warm, she stared at her body in the mirror, scrutinizing herself and running her hands over the large, swollen bump on her belly.

She laughed softly, the whole situation she was in felt like something straight out of a bad soap opera, and she was well aware of it. It was the cliché of all clichés, really—seeing a handsome man at the bar that's able to talk her into bed with just a few good pick-up lines and a devilish smirk. She had felt absolutely humiliated when she woke up the next morning to an empty bed, like her heart was made of strings and each individual thread had snapped painfully against her chest as it broke.

It had been so out-of-character for her and now, she was left with the after-effects of her one-night stand.

Steam rolled over the mirror glass and Emma stepped into the shower, washing herself as quickly as she could before turning off the water and retrieving a towel from the bathroom closet. She wrapped it around herself and waddled into her bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed while she combed her fingers through her hair, her mind wandering back to that fateful night seven months ago.

Emma still blushed at the thought of it. He was almost brutal in the way he had taken her. Her high school boyfriend had been awkward, they both had been, neither quite sure what they were doing since they were one another's firsts and still learning about sex. It had been sweet and gentle and she had always considered they were making love.

But _him_, he fucked her in every sense of the word—hard, rough and fast—pulling her body up against him as he bit into her skin and drew blood. It was a harsh and punishing pace that made her burn with white-hot need. It was raw and real, pulling at her heartstrings, her body, her soul. And Emma's peak had been equally impassioned, violently shattering her world, the aftershocks making her entire body convulse in his vice-like grasp.

It was something she would never forget . . . something she couldn't forget now that she was pregnant with his child.

_Dean Winchester._

His name still echoed through her mind and suddenly, she felt like a rubber band that had been stretched too far and had finally snapped. All of the emotions she had tamped down over the last seven months rose up like a tsunami with a strangling despair and she began to weep piteously into her hands, shoulders trembling with the force of her sobs.

Outside, the neighborhood lay silent and still, the sun having yet to crest the horizon. In the early hours of the morning, the sky was a pallid shade of slate gray, half hidden behind billowy white curtains that hung from the window. As dark rain clouds loomed in the distant sky, a static electricity also seemed to hang in the air, a small warning of the impending thunderstorm that was scheduled to arrive sometime later that afternoon.

Emma dejectedly watched the first drops of rain patter against her bedroom window, dripping down the glass like the tears on her face.

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	2. CHAPTER ONE

**CHAPTER ONE**

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Sam leans over the books and laptop spread out over the glass coffee table of the cheap motel room he and Dean had bought out for the night, an array of scattered highlighters and pens and Post-it notes everywhere. All the blinds were drawn closed, despite it being the middle of the day, only letting in a sliver of afternoon sunlight. A golden strand of it hung suspended in the air, caught between the panels of the plastic blinds as it illuminated the dust particles that floated in the room.

Sam reaches to turn another page when suddenly—a newspaper is thrust into his face.

"Hamilton, Montana," Dean states, plopping himself down into the chair across from him. "A woman's head was chopped off, police can't find the head.

Sam looks over the papers, eyebrow rising, "That's it? Her head's just missing?"

"Well, yeah."

"And you think this is a case?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't know. Could be," he reaches for the open beer on the table, taking a swig and then resting it on his lap, leaning back in his chair.

"I don't know, Dean. That doesn't seem like enough," Sam sighs. He turns and flicks on the floor lamp by the wall, creating a strange, pale glow as he tries to get a better look at the papers. When he glances back up, he sees Dean smirking down at his bottle of beer and he raises a brow in suspicion, "What's up with that look?" he asks.

"All right, there's something better in Montana than just a case."

"What?"

He grins and scoots forward so he's on the edge of his chair, "Emma Landon."

"Really?" Sam shakes his head, looking back down at the papers, "Should I even ask?"

"Remember that spirit we took on with the ax in his back seven months ago?"

"Yeah. Yeah, at that cabin down in Bozeman," he recalls.

"And you remember that bar we went to the night after we wrapped it up?" Sam nods and Dean continues on in an almost wistful tone, "'Spent the night with this sexy blonde. She had legs that went on miles, man—with an apple-bottomed ass to match." Dean whistles, his smile widening at the memory of those long, soft limbs wrapped around his body.

"So let me get this straight. You want to drive all the way to Montana just to hook up with this random chick again?"

"Come on, Sammy," Dean pleads. "It was one of the best nights of my life. Have a heart, will ya? It's my dying wish."

"Yeah, well, how many dying wishes are you gonna get?"

Dean tips back the rest of his beer, chuckling as he sets the thick glass down on the table. With a wide grin over his face he claps a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder, "As many as I can squeeze out!"

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When Emma enters the restaurant, the scent of Thai food fills her nostrils. It is not unpleasant, and her stomach rumbles in response to the aroma of smells wafting through the double, swinging doors that lead to the kitchen. There's coconut basmati rice and lemongrass roast chicken and broiled tilapia with coconut-curry sauce. She remembers that she's hardly eaten all day and lays a hand on her round belly, rubbing it affectionately.

She lets a waitress—no more than fifteen probably—thin, waifish, with a shy smile and kind eyes—lead her over to a small table in the back. She asks for water, deciding to keep it simple.

The restaurant is mostly empty, which she finds surprising since it's a Tuesday afternoon. The only patrons here were an old couple a few tables away and a man in his late-forties.

Emma looks around at the walls, which are rose-colored and offset by faux gold paneling, a border that horizontally halves the wall all the way around the room. Above the paneling is gaudy, floral wallpaper, decidedly oriental in nature to fit with the whole theme. Emma twists in her chair to look at the large statue of Buddha in the corner—spray painted gold and peeling. Origami place settings lay in the center of each table, and there is a matte painting framed on the wall of four large, Chinese symbols—and if there's a clashing of cultures going on here, Emma isn't going to say anything. She didn't choose this place for its authenticity, after all.

When the waitress returns with the water, Emma sips it languidly, forgoing the offered straw and let her mind wander. She made a mental note to pick up bread and milk on the way home and, looking at the date, she suddenly remembered that she needed to buy a birthday present for her sister-in-law too, adding it to her mental shopping list. The front door chimes, but Emma initially ignores the patron and goes back to swirling her ice cubes in her glass.

Then a shadow falls across her table and she looks up to the figure looking down at her. He's tall, and broad, and handsome. His hair is short and blonde and spiked in the front and he's wearing a large smile over his face, body relaxed and confident.

Emma's bottom lip begins to tremble.

"Dean?" she whispers in disbelief. The sudden dread that fills Emma is instantaneous, like she's been shocked by an electric current. The jolt of realization makes her heart stop, and she feels as through her lungs have been punctured with a sharp knife, all the air rushing out at once.

"Hey," Dean greets and Emma is unable to tear her eyes from him as he helps himself to the seat across from her with not-a-lot-of-grace, his large arms coming down on the table heavily, rattling the silverware that's been wrapped loosely in off-white paper napkins. He looks over her face and slowly, his smile morphs into a frown, "Hey, you alright?"

Emma nods her head yes, robotic, and tries to swallow down the emotions in her shaking bones.

"You're here," she whispers, her voice coming out much shakier than she would have liked, tears threatening to spill over as the situation began to dawn on her with more clarity. She swallows the lump in her throat, pushing down the thousands of burning questions she wanted to ask, pushing down the urge to scream until her lungs were raw. "W-Why are you here?"

"My brother and I were just driving through, thought I'd stop by," he smiles charmingly but Emma remains quiet.

There's an awkward silence between the two of them after that, broken only by the tired murmur of the old couple across the room who shuffle towards the doors to exit. The restaurant was starting to thin out and, by extension, so were Emma's nerves. _He's back_, rang through her skull, a loud shrill that made her head throb and her heart clench with suffocating force.

Dean's the first to break the silence, clearing his throat with a gruff cough. "So, how've you been?"

Emma's hand moves to rest on her round belly under the table and she looks down at the menu that lay open on her plate, "I've been okay." She murmurs softly, her eyes flickering up to him from under her lashes, "How about you?"

"I've been good."

Dean lets his eyes roam over the tired woman before him, his brows furrowing. He had seen her through the restaurant window when he and Sam were driving through the town's main road and had immediately parked at the perfect opportunity to meet up but looking at her now, he found himself surprised at how . . . off she seemed. Something about her was different and he couldn't put a finger on what it was.

Not only that, but she had looked terrified when she saw him—her pupils mere pinpoints, lips swollen and quivering, skin turning a paper-sheet white. She still looked like she was about to bolt, her entire body twitching with tension like a bungee cord pulled far too tight.

"You sure you're alright?" Dean finds himself asking again, leaning forward.

"Y-Yeah . . . Yeah, I'm fine," Emma's voice pauses along with her hands on her belly. Nervous butterflies began to settle in her stomach because of it, their imaginary wings flapping around her intestines and making her squirm. She knows she has to tell him. Now. It wasn't fair to keep something like this a secret, especially from the father of the child. She swallows and averts her eyes to the floor, wrapping her arms tighter around her middle as she observes the table in great detail. "Dean . . . there's something I have to tell you."

His brows furrow, "What?"

Taking a deep breath, Emma slowly stands and she watches Dean's face as it immediately falls on her round stomach, "I'm pregnant."

Dean's body stiffens and Emma's eyes dart back and forth between his green ones, gauging his reaction, and surprisingly, he looks completely shocked. He sits stiff, rigid, and straight-backed, with wide eyes—mouth opening and closing like a fish. She had expected some sort of anger from a man like Dean (not that she even really knew him), maybe a bit of yelling that would end with him storming out of the restaurant but he just looked completely and utterly _stunned_.

"Son of a bitch," he whispers under his breath, his eyes never leaving her stomach. "W-Who's is it?"

"Dean . . . it's yours."

His eyes finally rise to hers, but it's only for a second before it moves back to her swollen belly, "How do you know that?"

"Because you're the only one I've," Emma opens her mouth to continue, but for the life of her, she can't force any sound out. She's never been so nervous in her life, and she doesn't understand why. Perhaps it's because of the fact that they hardly know each other and they were already talking about the baby they'd created, or the fact that Dean was staring at her with an unwavering gaze. He was too overbearing, and as Emma's voice continued to fail her, she feels a hot blush stain her cheeks until she finally stutters out, "y-you're the only one I've been with in the last two years."

Dean's confident, tough façade she had seen seven months ago crumbles completely at her answer, and she sees something change in his eyes as his face falls into his hands, "Holy shit."

"Dean," Emma whispers, "Dean, listen." She waits for him to raise his head before she continues, "I don't expect anything from you—I just want you to know so you have a choice. No one will blame you if you walk away," she explains quietly, reaching out to set her hand against his trembling one.

The moment is gone in a second, disappearing as quickly as a flash of lightning, and Dean narrows his eyes at her, tugging back his hand with a glare, "Yeah, but my kid will." They stare at each other for a long beat before Dean's eyes flicker back to her stomach, his face anxious, "You . . . you know what it's gonna be?"

Emma can't stop a small smile from growing over her lips, looking down at her belly and rubbing it tenderly. "A baby boy," she replies and she looks up just in time to catch the tiny grin on Dean's face. Before she can stop herself, she's suddenly asking, "Do you want to feel him?"

He looks a bit dazed but manages a small nod, his eyes glued to her stomach.

Emma scoots her chair closer to Dean and reaches out for his shaking hand, lightly placing it on the side of her belly where their son is kicking. She giggles when he jumps, his wide eyes swerving up to hers.

"Do you feel his little feet?" she asks and he nods slowly. "He hasn't stopped moving for two months now, he's a total spaz."

Emma's eyes soften when Dean lets out a small chuckle, his smile slowly growing, "He's strong," he murmurs, his eyes flickering up to hers and Emma's breath hitches. Even with his face set in its intense and unfathomable expression, his lips are naturally hitched up at one corner, the opposite quirk to his eyebrow balancing it out delectably. It makes him look at once cunning and fierce and very, very perceptive.

His penetrating gaze darts between her eyes for a moment and then lazily trails back down to her stomach, his hand still pressed intimately against her round belly. "We should get out of here, go somewhere more private."

Emma suddenly feels the stares and looks up to find the small waitress and the man at the other side of the restaurant watching them. Her cheeks burn and she nods at Dean's suggestion, reaching down to grab her purse, "You can follow me with your car, I only live a few blocks away."

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	3. CHAPTER TWO

**CHAPTER TWO**

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There's a very real price to pay when one chooses to be a hunter. Doesn't matter if you're rich or poor, black or white, old or young—the price is always the same, and the stakes are high no matter who you are, or what your story is.

The price isn't death, as you might be expecting. Death, dying—that just means it all gets to end. It's absolution. Not one is invincible, though there are those who like to try convince themselves otherwise. Death is ingrained in our very species from the moment we exit the womb. The clock starts and if you're lucky it doesn't stop, not for a while, anyway, not until you've crossed off your bucket list or settled down, had two kids, built a white-picket fence, gotten to enjoy your apple pie and lived a little bit of the American dream.

No, the price is something far more sinister than death, something that many go their whole lives without experiencing.

The price is pure, unadulterated _fear._

And this is a different kind of fear, a fear that is poles apart from what's felt when tragedy strikes in the everyday rat-race of life: when your seven year-old child who walks home from the bus stop every day never makes it back and you think god, what if they've been kidnapped? Or when an earthquake or tornado strikes and the plates in the cupboard rattle and the wind outside howls like a savage beast, and you think this is it, I'm going to die. It is a fear far different than when you get that call—your sister, your brother, your mother or your wife—hit by a car, had a heart attack, fell down the stairs, gunned down at the bank. It's always the same and never different. These kinds of fears can be categorized, and when all is said and done, grief sets in, and that can be categorized too, put into five neat little stages, à la Kübler-Ross, M.D.

There are no neat, pragmatic stages for the grief felt by a hunter.

There are no stages because that pure, unadulterated fear? _It never. Goes. Away._ It's a constant sense paranoia that only grows more and more the longer you keep living. And Dean knows this better than anybody, because Dean Winchester has survived, and he has been torn apart—over and over and over again by the supernatural. And the thing is, even though he can never really get used to it, he has to pretend that he is. He has to, if he wants to survive.

But things are different now for Dean.

Things are different because Dean knows he's not just going to die. He's going to Hell.

It had been so easy selling his soul, how could it not be? His brother had so much more to live for: he had friends, dreams, a future. Dean, on the other hand, hand nothing holding him back. All he had ever been was a waste to society. Hell, Sam would be better off without him bringing him down all the time.

Then Emma Landon came along. When she told Dean she was pregnant with a baby, _his baby_, all the air in his lungs had been stolen, gone—just like that. He felt like he'd been shoved flat on his back, with the wind knocked out of his chest. He hadn't felt that sensation in a while, not since he was seventeen, when a werewolf had slammed him into the pavement—360 pounds of pure, black rippling muscle—with veins bulging beneath his stained wife beater and a snarl so fierce it'd made him nearly piss his pants in fear. He remembers gasping like a fish and rolling on the concrete when it was over, trying to suck in precious oxygen, his eyes blown wide with shock and his ribs cracking, shooting splinters into his abdomen with every desperate cry for breath.

There had been four cracked ribs, a broken nose, a sprained wrist, and a face bloody and bruised beyond recognition. He couldn't move for weeks after that and had pissed blood for a month. But that pain, so long ago, so distant—it was _nothing_ compared to what he felt in the restaurant.

When Dean enters the Impala, his heart does something that feels like a somersault, and he has to suck in a lungful of air. His knuckles are white where he grips the steering wheel in a vice, and for a moment he leans forward and rests his forehead against the top rung of it, feeling happy, furious, excited, and angry. Fuck, he doesn't know _what_ he feels. All he knows is that he's going to be a dad—a dad to a little baby boy that he would only get to hold for eight months before he would be dragged down into Hell's fire. Eight months. _Eight months._

He draws in another breath and lifts his head, squinting past the rays of sun that warm the dashboard to see Emma waddling over to her car on the corner.

He doesn't realize he's not alone until someone calls his name.

"Hey, you alright?" Sam prompts, because he can see that Dean is wound-up and tense, and there's stiffness in his broad shoulders and sadness furled in the crinkles around his eyes. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd almost think Dean was about to cry, but he's only seen his brother cry once and that was when their dad died. But even then, he didn't look so spooked. Sam swallows, "Dean, come on, what happened?"

Dean leans back against his seat and lets out a deep breath, running both hands over his face, "I screwed up, man." he said, and only then did he look up.

"What do you mean?"

Dean sucks in a shaky breath before letting it out, slowly. "She's pregnant," he says, the words sounding strained.

"Who?"

"Emma," is Dean's only reply. His voice sounds foreign to his ears.

"Dean," Beside him, Sam shifts uncomfortably. Old fast food wrappers crinkle and his mix-tape begins to play the rift to one of his favorite rock songs in the background. "Tell me you wrapped it up," Sam breaths.

"Jesus, I don't remember. I think I did, I-I," suddenly, Dean's entire demeanor is changing in an instant and he's slamming his hands down on the steering wheel, causing the Impala to shake. "_Fuck!_"

"Hey, calm down, you don't even know if it's yours," Sam assures.

"She says I'm the only one who could be the father," Dean grits from behind clenched teeth, offended by what Sam said for reasons he can't explain. "Says I'm the only one she's been with in the last two years."

There's an awkward silence between the two brothers after that, broken only by the sound of cars passing beside them on the road. The pedestrians walking along the sidewalk were starting to thin out, and, by extension, so were Dean's nerves. _A father_ rang through his head, a loud shrill that made his head throb and his lungs clench with suffocating force.

When Emma pulls out of her parking spot, Dean quickly starts his car and follows, his hands trembling.

Sam is the first to break the silence, "What're you gonna do?" he asks quietly.

Dean's face is a mask of calm, expression neutral, mouth relaxed. It's the kind of face he uses when he's on the job, the face he uses when his emotions become too overwhelming for him to handle and he's trying to shut them out. But it's his eyes that give him away. When they lock with Sam's, they look absolutely terrified.

"I don't know."

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When Dean steps out of the Impala, he finds his eyes immediately zeroing in onto Emma. She's dressed in a lilac purple dress and her long blonde hair is down, swaying behind her as she moves. He stops mid-step, watching her approach with a strange, anxious feeling welling up in his stomach.

Emma's different from the typical woman he's fucked. She doesn't have a make-up caked face or a massive rack—in fact, she's the exact opposite of what he usually goes for.

She's on the tall side for a woman and the epitome of willowy, with fine collar bones, small breasts and limbs that are long and lithe. Her skin is pale and her features are soft and feminine with a cute, shapely mouth and baby-blue eyes. She looks fresh, and maybe that's what appeals to him most about her, the fact that she doesn't look so fake or overdone.

Dean's eyes move to her round stomach and he swallows—their night together coming back to him full force.

That evening, he had fucked her in his motel room down at the edge of town. It wasn't romantic or slow and sweet—it was fast and rough, just the way he liked it. He had bitten into her skin and caused her to bleed and he had reviled in her mewling little moans, her back arched and her face flushed with pleasure. She was the sexiest woman he had ever done, hands down—and when she had thrown her head back and screamed when she came, the sight of her getting off had sent him over the edge, his entire body trembling with the force of his climax. The whole thing had been one of the most intense nights of his life. Emma had been submissive and passionate and so, so _tight_.

Dean shivers heatedly at memory and quickly shakes it off, his eyes coming back into focus when Emma stops in front of him.

"Hey," she greets, her voice tender and soft.

Dean nods, stuffing his hands into his front pockets. "Hey," he nods behind at Sam, who's staring at Emma's stomach like it's a third eye or some other weird anomaly. "This is my brother, Sam."

"It's nice to meet you, Sam," Emma nods and taller Winchester immediately shakes her outstretched hand, forcing a weak, constipated smile. There's a moment of uncomfortable silence before Emma gestures to the clean, middle class home behind her, "Here, come inside."

She fishes for the keys in her purse and inserts one of them into the door. She opens it and then steps aside to let the brothers enter first.

Dean's looks around as he wipes his large boots on the rug beneath his feet, "Nice place," he complements. The room is spacious and open—a large fireplace nestled against the wall to the left of them and a crimson ornamental rug adorning the sleek, mahogany floors. A brown leather sofa is on one side of the fireplace while two matching armchairs sit across from it, a rounded coffee table resting in between the three items. The house is the kind of home he remembers having as a child: warm, comfortable and welcoming.

"Thanks, it's my parents," Emma smiles, shutting the door behind her. She looks small and vulnerable, standing there in her pretty purple dress with her arms folded awkwardly across her stomach, hugging her pregnant belly like it's a life-line. Dean can understand why she seems so nervous, why wouldn't she be? They'd only met once but it wasn't like they did much talking. In reality, they hardly knew each other. He watches her bite her bottom lip and take a step forward. "Do you guys want anything to eat or drink?" she asks, "We've got lemonade and cookies, if you'd like some."

Dean shakes his head, "Think we could sit down?"

"Yeah," Emma nods nervously and leads them over to the leather couches by the fireplace, sitting in one of the arm chairs with her legs curled up beside her. Sam and Dean take the couch.

Silence lingers between three of them, heavy and thick and Dean rubs his sweaty hands up and down thighs before finally speaking—his voice gruff. "Sammy and I . . . we travel around a lot, doing odd jobs. I don't know if I'll be able to be around a lot but, I want to be in the baby's life." Dean says, and his shoulders square and posture straightens, and he looks more sure and determined—a quick reversal from how dazed he had been at the restaurant. "I don't have a lot of money but I can get you what you need. Diapers, a crib, bottles—whatever, I'll get it for you."

Emma's brow dips, "When will you come around?"

"Every two or three weeks," Dean shrugs, and it's almost imperceptible. He looks down at her stomach, "Do you know when he's due?"

"August 17th," Emma couldn't stop a smile from stretching over her face, her hand rubbing her stomach in smooth circles, "He's a summer baby."

"It's a boy?" Sam asks.

And Dean smiles—happy, tired, bittersweet—and clasps a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder. "Yeah," and it sounds like he wants to say more but he's interrupted by the front door opening.

"Emma-Bean?" a voice calls from the hallway. "You home?"

"That's my dad," Emma sounds confused and her brows pinch in confusion. She rises from her chair and walks over to the doorway around the corner, calling, "You're home early!"

Dean groans and leans his head back against the couch, running both hands over his face, "Damn, my day just keeps on getting better and better doesn't it?"

Sam snickers, "You're screwed, man."

Both brothers look up when the father and daughter enter the room and they both almost laugh. Standing beside Emma is a short, plump man dressed in a blue button up with a colorful tie wrapped around his neck. His blonde hair is in a curly disarray and his hazel eyes are slightly crossed, his nose large and round and red.

When he sees Dean and Sam sitting on his living room couch, his wide smile slowly falls. Anyone who's ever come in contact with the Winchesters knows that they are nothing, if not intimidating. While Dean emanates an air of fiery aggression, Sam's calculated gaze never fails in making a person feel inferior. And when they stand up from the couch—tall, large, daunting—Emma's father has no choice but to take a step back.

"Emma?" He murmurs nervously, "Who's . . . ?"

"Dad—this is Dean and his brother, Sam," Emma smiles, walking closer to the brothers and gesturing as she introduced them—she then nods to her father, "This is my dad, William."

"It's nice to meet you, sir," Dean stretches out his hand and William shakes it, looking at the two Winchesters in confusion. They weren't the kind of people Emma usually spent time with and he was utterly confused as to how they'd come into acquaintances.

"Emma, are these friends of yours?" he asks.

"Uh, I—um, well," Emma begins but her stutters are quickly cut off by Dean.

"I'm the father of her baby," he announces and everyone in the room immediately turns to stare at him in shock.

Dean's gaze darts back and forth between William's eyes, gauging his reaction but the man merely freezes: stiff, rigid, and straight-backed with wide eyes. Emma is a little less poised, her shoulders drawn down and her hands folded loosely across her stomach while Sam shifts awkwardly behind him, looking like he would rather be anywhere then in the tension filled room.

William opens and closes his mouth a few times before he finally he speaks, "P-Pardon?"

"Dad," Emma whispers, "I think we should sit down."

"This is the man that got you pregnant?" William breaths. Gulping arduously like he's trying to swallow a golf ball, her father's face reddens, his lips pressed together severely, "And where have you been the last seven months?"

"Daddy, he didn't know—"

William cut Emma off with the swipe of his hand, "I don't want to hear it! Impregnating my daughter and then leaving the next morning without even seeing that she gets home safely! My wife had to pick her up from a very dangerous part of town young man and she was in tears! Not to mention she was completely covered in bruises and _her own blood!_" William's body is quivering as he struggles to contain his anger.

"Dad, stop it!" Emma admonishes.

"No! I want him to get the hell out of my house this instant before I call the police!"

Dean's eyes are dark when he raises his head to look at William. "You can't keep me from my son," he says, quietly.

William's face is beet red. "The hell I can't! You beat my daughter and then left her in the middle of nowhere! You aren't coming near either of them!"

Suddenly, Dean is invading his space, both hands roughly gripping the material of his blue work-shirt as he lowers his face over William's, "Listen," he says, voice turned cold. "I'm gonna be back. You can bet your ass on that. That baby is _mine_. You aren't taking him from me," he grits.

Dean's not a violent guy, not to anyone who's human that is, but hunting changes the way you look at the world, at things. It makes you bitter, resentful. And there isn't anything worse than having someone tell you, you can't have something you've so desperately wanted all your life. He would only get eight months to know his son, and he wasn't going to let _anyone_ get in the way of that.

"Dean," Sam's voice is stern and the oldest Winchester slowly peals his fingers from a frightened William, shoving the man back a bit too roughly.

His eyes snap to Emma, who's standing at the side of the room with a pale face and shaking fingers and when Dean moves towards her, he feels a pinch in his gut when she takes a step back. She holds her hands tightly around her stomach and when he leans in, her eyes widen when he kisses her forehead. Dean's eyes lock with her father, who's watching the two of them with a face so red he looks like he's about to explode.

"I'll see you soon," Dean whispers in her ear and that's the last thing he says to her before he leaves the house, Sam trailing behind him solemnly.

:

:

"What the hell was that, Dean?" Sam asks the moment they enter the Impala but Dean ignores the question, starting the car and zooming down the road at a speed that causes his tires to squeal.

"We need to get to Bobbie's," he husks, his voice low and harsh like gravel.

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm _not_ going to Hell."

:

_sorry for taking so long to update! I actually had this chapter done two weeks ago but sadly, everything got deleted and I had to start over again *eye roll* please review!_

_ps. **KenBeAny** and I are the same author, so there is no copywriting in this chapter._


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